


Alterations

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Banter, Crossdressing, Friendship, M/M, Magic, Mild Kink, Romance, Season 4 Spoilers, Season/Series 04, Secrets, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin thinks he knows everything about Arthur. But, as he learns in the days leading up to the royal wedding, sometimes even the greatest of kings (and the surest of destinies) require a few… alterations. <i>An altered ending to S4 that has nothing but love for Gwen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alterations

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for hms_seth for the 2012 Merlin Glomp Fest. Many thanks to Mizufae for the beta.
> 
> **Please note:** contains references to mind control (S4e12 style) and heavy drinking.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.

Merlin honestly thought that he knew everything about Arthur Pendragon. All his faces, all his smells, all his fears and hopes and endless _moods._ He knew everything from how fast his facial hair grew to which belt size he'd need on any given day; he even knew things about Arthur that Arthur didn’t quite yet believe himself—grand, bold, future things—so he was more than a bit surprised when, less than a week before his wedding, Arthur donned his big blue cloak (which he still thought a viable disguise, even though Merlin and half the guard were on to him) and snuck out of the castle.

Naturally, Merlin followed.

At this hour no one but market cats, drunks, and the watch were about. Merlin avoided all with ease. When he realized where Arthur was headed, he clucked his tongue and chided himself for being so suspicious. _Gwen's cottage. Should have known._

He nearly turned on his heel and went back to the castle, but something made him pause, lingering in the deeper shadows behind an abandoned cart. Gwen and Arthur had been spending a _lot_ of time behind closed doors of late—a lot of time behind closed doors _without_ Merlin, that is—and he couldn’t help but wonder what they were up to.

After all, there were only so many times a man could apologize for nearly turning his beloved into venison stew, and after the wedding…

Well, after the wedding they'd have their whole bloody lives to canoodle behind closed doors, wouldn’t they? So why all the sneaking around?

Frowning, Merlin crept nearer and crouched beneath the window. He couldn't make out actual words, but he recognized Arthur's bluster and Gwen's murmurs. They seemed to be arguing. That wasn't a good sign, was it?

_Of course not._

Merlin knew what a burden it was, loving Arthur, and he'd been backing Gwen from the start, but… For a time there, after Uther had died and before Gwen had been banished (and leaving out the whole Fomorroh incident, which they'd made a solemn pact never to speak of), they'd been a sort of threesome. Not the kind Gwaine hinted at when he was in his cups—when Merlin got all hot and bothered thinking about just _who_ and _how,_ and what, exactly, would go _where_ —but a sort of nice, companionable trio.

He and Gwen had spent many a happy hour in Arthur's chambers, playing at council and enjoying a bit of fruit or cheese, but mostly in thrall to the way Arthur threw his head back and laughed—teeth and belly and hands and all—when he wasn't weighed down by crown and circumstance. And though he'd known better, of _course_ he had, Merlin had managed to convince himself that this was how it would always be: Merlin, Arthur and Gwen (or, if he were being completely honest: Merlin and Arthur, plus Gwen).

But that was neither here nor there. At least Gwen wasn't a spoilt princess who would patronize Merlin or insist on bringing in her own servants. In fact, she'd probably want to do sensible, unheard of things like sharing Arthur's bathwater and fetching her own breakfast. Which was just fine with Merlin, really. He'd have more time for sleeping and wanking and swotting up on useful spells. Speaking of which…

Merlin stood slowly. _"Áscyre,"_ he whispered to the window, peering in through the now-transparent curtain. 

Of all the possible scenarios his ample imagination had cooked up, he could honestly say that he'd never once considered _this._

* * *

Arthur was wearing a gown. Correction—Arthur was wearing _the_ gown, the one Merlin felt he knew better than his own skin of late because it was all he'd been hearing about, all over the castle.

And whether he agreed with Cook that it was lilac, Hob that it was violet, or bloody _George_ that it was the exact shade of pressed bluebells, Merlin knew without a doubt that it was _Gwen's_ wedding gown. So the fact that Arthur was wearing it—or rather, half-wearing it, as he only had his arms partway in the sleeves, the bodice cradled against his chest—was intriguing.

As was the sight of Gwen fiddling with the laces at the small of his back, the ones just below those dimples Merlin was unbearably fond of, and just above the generous swell of his…

Merlin blinked. _Right. A few gaps in my knowledge about the once and future king, then. Like the fact that, whatever destiny has in store for the rest of him, his backside was born to wear silk._

In fact, Merlin thought that _all_ of Arthur looked rather well in the gown, especially in the candlelight, with all that fiddly gold needlework and lace trimming set against his bare skin. Yes, his shoulders seemed far too broad and his belly was straining against the waistband, but Merlin thought Arthur looked far less silly in Gwen's dress than he had in those peasant's rags he'd stuffed himself into out in the woods.

Fascinated, he shifted so he could turn an ear towards the room without giving up his line of sight. _"Beorhte,"_ he whispered, pressing the warmth of his hand into the cold stone, willing the voices to come through to him, clear and bright as bells.

No doubt Arthur was just playing dummy for Gwen, helping her with some last-minute alterations, but Merlin told himself he owed it to Camelot and the future Albion to stay and observe. He should ensure there were no sinister plots afoot, that no one burst in on the king while he was in this state and attempted to ravish… er, challenge him. That sort of thing.

"… _not_ tear," Gwen was saying. "So you can stop holding your breath. I put extra panels in for you, and the stitching is—lean forward please—reinforced. So really, you needn't worry."

Arthur released his breath in a gusty sigh, lowering the bodice as he bent to brace himself on the table. "But it feels so… I mean, I'm bound to ruin it if I try to do more than—wait, what do you mean you put extra panels in? Gwen, I— "

Just then Gwen gave a firm tug at the laces, and Merlin would have sworn that Arthur sort of squeaked.

Gwen bit her lip, doing that adorable thing with her face that signaled she was about to give someone a much-needed piece of her mind. Living as a fugitive seemed to have cured Gwen of any lingering meekness, because she'd been making that face _a lot_ of late.

"Arthur, stop. We both know it'll do me no good where I'm going. And with the work that went into the lace trimming alone—well, _someone_ should get some use out of it, even if it's only in private."

"If you insist," he muttered.

"I do," she said. She pinched the laces in, tying them off in a bow, then patted his hip. "All right. Now stand up tall and hold your arms out."

_Where is Gwen going?_ Merlin wondered. _And what would Arthur need with her wedding gown?_

Arthur straightened, cheeks flaming. Gwen helped him fully into the bodice and sleeves. The latter were trailing, shapeless worms of cloth and lace until she artfully rucked them up, securing them to Arthur's arms with broad bands of ribbon. Then she slipped behind him to finish lacing him up the back. A mischievous smile flitted across her face. 

"Of course, you'll need someone to help with all _this,_ but I expect Merlin would be more than happy to— "

"Gwen," Arthur cut in, voice strained. "Merlin isn't… I haven't told him; I'm not sure I can, after everything I know he's done for me. For _us._ He never gave up on you, you know." He turned round with little shuffling steps, arms held awkwardly away from his sides. "Always rabbiting on about you, poking my sore heart. God, the _face_ on him—you know the one I mean. I nearly banished him as well."

Merlin couldn't help smiling at Arthur's sorry tone. He hoped Gwen would give Arthur an earful on his behalf, but she only laughed, the traitor.

"Actually, I could have used some help with those pigs," she said, fussing with the trimming along the neckline, where, thanks to Arthur's meaty physique and Gwen's severe lace-up job, a bit of kingly cleavage was visible.

_Very nice. Definitely wouldn't mind passing out on that after a night at the Rising Sun._

Gwen made a few more adjustments, then eyed Arthur up and down. "Lovely," she pronounced, patting his chest. She gathered her tools and began placing them back in her sewing box. 

Merlin noticed her rubbing the measuring ribbon between her thumb and forefinger as she folded it. His heart lurched a little, remembering the first time he'd seen her wield it. 

Gwen gave the folded ribbon a squeeze. "But, Arthur? I don't believe for a second you would have sent Merlin away."

"And why not?" he said, chin held high. "He's always off carousing or wandering in the woods as it is. I _can_ manage perfectly well without him."

Gwen nestled the folded ribbon into the box, then looked up, giving Arthur an indulgent smile. "Yes, but you manage _better_ when he's at your side. That's a rare kind of love, Arthur, being better and braver—being more _yourself_ —when the other person is there, even if you're trapped in a filthy cell. Or fighting for your life."

Arthur shook his head. He started to cross his arms over his chest, then faltered, eyeing his sleeves. "I'm not sure I'm meant for that kind of love," he said gloomily, lowering his arms back to his sides. "All those I've... Well, I've certainly no talent for bestowing it wisely." 

Merlin bit his lip, breath caught in his throat. It was much the same thing Arthur had said to him in the forest, when Tristan's barbs had got the best of him and his faith was on the ebb. It still made Merlin wince a bit, so he was shocked when Gwen, who had even more cause for wincing, merely rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Gwen. In your absence I shall grow a hideous, untamed beard and become known as the Bachelor King. Merlin will despair of me and go live amongst the Druids."

"Shall I call for some more of that Moravian wine and invite the other gentlewomen round for a proper moan, my lady? Perhaps a bard as well, to set your sorrows in verse?"

Arthur glared at her, then scrubbed a hand over his face. "I think that particular vintage has done enough damage. Look, are you certain you can't stay for a few months at least, let the people get used to the idea that their queen isn't going to be satisfied with the domestic sort of diplomacy?"

Gwen shook her head, somber now. "The sooner I go, the sooner they'll get used to it, plus the negotiations with the Southrons won't wait. And if the Druids are right, if this Avalon exists and there is even a _chance_ that Lancelot could be brought back… Arthur, I have to find that cup. Or at least try."

* * *

Merlin nearly gave himself away. As it was, he had to clap his hands over his mouth and duck down below the sill. Gwen was going after the Cup of Life? For Lancelot?

He supposed it was possible that Freya had preserved him somehow, kept him from crossing over, but... _Why didn't I think of that?_

At the time, Merlin had assumed death to be the kindest outcome, given what Morgana had forced Lancelot to do. But then he'd also been a wreck—angry, heartbroken, not to mention paranoid about Morgana's next move. It wasn't like he'd stopped to consider other options. He could well imagine Freya interceding though, seeing only an ill-fated lover in need of a second chance. 

_You might have said hello, my lady. Shown yourself at least, spared me setting the damn boat on fire._

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Merlin eased his way back up to the window. 

Arthur and Gwen were standing close together, holding hands. This seemed odd, given where Merlin had left the conversation. Even odder, though, was the fact that they were both _smiling._ He pressed his hand to the stone once more.

" …now, Gwen. No more lies," Arthur was saying. "I know it's really just that you miss those pigs."

"Actually," she said, "it's all the cloak and dagger. Plus the running around in trousers and not being fussed about girdles. _Love_ it."

"Except when you're being chased by Morgana's henchmen."

"Ooh, right. Or peppered with crossbow bolts by some belching ice princess."

"Guinevere, _dear,_ I thought we'd agreed never to mention that again."

"Why, you… At least I wasn't curled up on the floor _braying_ about my great fuzzy donkey ears!"

"Better than filling the throne room with malodorous— "

Gwen shrieked and tried clapping her hands over Arthur's mouth, but by this point she was giggling uncontrollably, so it looked more like she was trying to smoosh his face.

Merlin would have said Arthur was giggling as well, except everyone knew Arthur _never_ giggled. He either swallowed his amusement in a bulgy-eyed, twitchy-jawed sort of way or his laugh broke clear through, as it did now. He swatted Gwen's hands away and doubled over, gasping, pressing his hands to his thighs.

Merlin decided not to notice what this did to Arthur's rear profile, nor what it revealed about what he was wearing beneath the dress. 

_It's nothing I haven't seen before, but don't look. He's a… well, a lady of sorts right now, and that's Gwen's wedding gown. Seriously, don't look._

He looked. And the answer was: nothingnothingnothing.

_Why don't more men wear silk?_ Merlin wondered, shifting restlessly against the wall.

"The stitches, are you quite certain they'll hold?" Arthur managed at last. "Merlin's good for leather and buttons and the odd flesh wound, but I'm not sure I'd trust him with silk. Unless embroidery is another of his hidden ta—" Arthur straightened up, grinning. "Gods, what am I saying? He could probably pull the stuff out of thin air, couldn't he?"

Then suddenly Gwen wasn't laughing, and neither was Arthur. They were staring at one another almost guiltily, color high on their cheeks.

Arthur stepped forward, swearing as he trod of the hem of the gown.

"Careful," Gwen murmured. She crouched to examine the damage. "I do have to wear it the once."

Arthur froze, head down. He seemed more than a bit lost, as if he'd been sleepwalking and suddenly woke to find himself in his current attire.

He opened his mouth, but Gwen looked up, eyes fierce.

"You have to tell him, Arthur," she said. She stood in one smooth motion. "You _have_ to. How can you not, knowing who he is, everything he's risked to be near you? He has a right to know the real you."

"What if he's— " Arthur started pulling at the shoulders of the gown, trying to get it off until Gwen stayed his hands.

"Arthur, you'll tear the lace!"

Arthur gripped her hands instead. "Gwen, this isn't the _real_ me; it's just a… a part, all right? And not a part all men understand. He keeps insisting I'm meant to be some great king, but if he knew... "

Gwen shook her head. "I saw you two, you know, the day you met." She eased her hands from Arthur's grasp and began rearranging the trimming along the shoulders. "He was willing to risk his life for you back when he loathed you. Do you honestly think he'd walk away now? And do you think he'd still be sulking all over the castle if the _only_ thing he'd wanted from you was amnesty?"

Merlin pulled his hand from the wall as if he'd been burnt. Eyes closed, he sagged against the rough stone, half expecting someone to come running at the sound of his thundering heart. What could Arthur possibly be keeping from him? Apart from this thing with the gown, of course. Merlin frowned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

_I'm no seamstress, true, but he still could have come to me. He knows I'm not above ransacking a lady's wardrobe._

It didn't feel right, Arthur hiding things from him. _He_ had always been the one with the great aching secrets—still had a few up his sleeve, as a matter of fact, despite Arthur now knowing exactly how he mended socks and heated the bathwater. (After all the years of painful secrecy, all the dramatic close calls and elaborate cover stories, Merlin would forever find it humiliating that Arthur had found him out by spying on him from behind his changing screen.)

And what was Gwen on about? Just because he'd been a bit quiet—just because he didn't feel the need to prate on and on about every last detail of the upcoming wedding like Cook and Hob and bloody _George_ —did _not_ mean he was sulking. 

When his pulse had calmed somewhat, Merlin began to back away, intending to slip off to his bed for a nice long think. And maybe a wank (no need to let the image of Arthur's silk-clad backside go to waste). It was either that or barge in demanding explanations, and Merlin didn't fancy spending Arthur's wedding day in the stocks. Or the dungeons.

Unfortunately, Merlin was not quite as adept at sneaking backwards. He never even saw the market cat slinking by. He felt it though—and heard it—the instant his boot heel came down on its tail.

An indignant yowl rent the night. Merlin tumbled to the ground with a startled, "Ouf!"

* * *

The cottage door opened, spilling a rod of light across the packed earth.

"Merlin!"

"Um, hey." Merlin scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off. He gestured in the direction the beast had fled. "Sorry. Cat-cident."

Gwen gave him an exasperated look, which Merlin thought unfair, given that she'd just been laughing at Arthur's terrible puns.

"What are you doing here this time of night? Not that you're not welcome, of course, but it is late."

"Oh." Merlin scratched his head, but no excuse was forthcoming. "I was looking for Arthur?"

"Why would— " Gwen glanced up as a pair of guards passed by, at the upper end of the lane. She lowered her voice to a forced whisper. "Why would Arthur be here, Merlin?"

"I didn't assume he _was,"_ Merlin rushed on. "Only he's not in the castle, and I thought I'd, um, check to see if you knew anything before bothering the guard?"

She shrugged, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. "Sorry, haven't seen him since this afternoon."

Gwen would have been an amazing liar were it not for her eyes. And Merlin, well, in some ways he liked to think he was an amazing liar, but on bad days he suspected it was just that no one had ever imagined he had any secrets worth keeping. Fortunately, Arthur decided to take matters into his own hands.

"It's all right, Gwen," he called out. "Let him in."

"Haven't seen him until _just now,_ that is," Gwen added. "He's just— " There was a crash from within the cottage, followed by a muffled curse and a distressed whine. She glanced back over her shoulder, then, grinning, opened the door wide. "Um, yes. Won't you join us, Merlin?"

The cottage was familiar territory—tidy, snug, and once more pleasantly full of Gwen's belongings—but Merlin felt little comfort as he edged inside. 

Arthur was now sitting at Gwen's table, swathed in his blue un-sneaky sneaking cloak, looking suspiciously lumpy and trying to hide his feet behind a basket of rushes. Somehow, though, he still managed to look imperious.

"Well, what is it, Merlin?" he said testily. "Is the woodworm acting up again?"

"G-Gaius," Merlin stuttered, intending some elaborate lie about a magical something-or-other Morgana had left behind that had only just been discovered. Arthur went wide-eyed and still, and Merlin realized what he must be thinking.

"No, not that," he said. "He's fine, only… " And he couldn’t go through with it. _Couldn't._ Not after what he'd heard.

He gazed down at the tips of his boots. "I couldn't sleep, sire. I was worried about the... Well, you know walking helps me think. I was having a stroll, and I saw you slipping out of the castle."

There was a pause. "So you decided to follow me."

Merlin scuffed one foot forward. "Habit."

"Ah. Of course."

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right, sire," Merlin mumbled. "You are wearing your _blue_ cloak."

"Merlin, in which of your delusional fantasies does the color of my cloak give you the right to skulk about and listen at keyholes?" 

Merlin snorted, glancing up. "As if I need keyholes when I can listen through wa—um, not that I _was._ No that there was anything to hear. Or see. Except." Merlin tangled his fingers together to stop them flailing about. 

Arthur clenched his jaw, cheeks as red as if he'd been slapped. He discovered a fascinating knot in the table.

Merlin looked to Gwen in desperation. She shrugged, giving him that rueful half-smile that seemed to say, "You've already put your foot in it; might as well speak your piece."

Merlin took a deep breath, thinking, _Fine. At least she was a witness when he promised not to chop off my head._

"Look, Arthur, I'm not entirely certain what's going on here. In fact, I haven't a _clue,_ but all that stuff I told you in the forest, about your destiny? It wasn't just rubbish to make you feel better. I really believe in it, but more than that—Arthur, I believe in _you._ If, by some means, someone horrible like… like Agravaine had been able to pull that sword out of the stone, I'd be running the other way."

It was still hard for Merlin, saying his name to Arthur, and if Arthur's face was anything to go by, it was still hard for him to hear it.

"Even if you were a… a swineherd," Merlin rushed on, "I'd still… Well, I'm sure you'd be the very best sort of swineherd. I might give you a hard time, but I'd go around every day thinking how lucky the pigs were to have you, how strong and fine and lovable you are, even when you're sleepy or grumpy or wearing Gwen's dress, and that—um, did I just say that last bit aloud?"

Merlin looked around, panicked, to find Arthur gawping and Gwen with her hands over her mouth.

"Kitchens!" she sang out, grabbing her shawl off a peg by the door. "I forgot. Urgent feast business to discuss with Cook. Douse the big candles when you leave. Oh, and, Arthur? I told you so." And with that she was gone, pulling the door shut firmly behind her.

"I didn’t see much, really," Merlin breathed, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can… I can _not_ have seen, if you prefer."

"I thought we were beyond such pretense," Arthur said wearily.

Merlin heard a rustle of fabric, then the scrape of the bench on the floor.

"Well, go on then, Merlin. Look your fill. If you're going to mock me, at least make a thorough job of it."

* * *

Arthur wasn't pretty like Freya or Gwen. He wasn't stunning like Morgana in her heyday or Gwaine basking in the sun, but he was definitely _something._ He caught the eye and held it ransom, had always done so, albeit unwittingly. Now, he was blatantly giving Merlin permission to look, and like this he was…

Merlin's desire to fling himself in front of Arthur and keep him safe—which was pretty much baseline instinct these days—bubbled up hot and strong, mingling with an overwhelming urge to _touch._ And not in a fleeting, practical way.

"You're beautiful," Merlin blurted, wondering if the lace felt scratchy or soft and how it compared to the swirls of hair on Arthur's chest. The gown had been made for a woman's breasts, but Gwen had worked wonders with her pins and tucks, because it didn't pouch at all awkwardly in the front. Through the taut fabric, Merlin could see the lower curves of Arthur's pectorals and the flat discs of his nipples.

_Wonder if he'd go back on that promise if I pinched them,_ Merlin thought, stifling a laugh.

Arthur swallowed, eyes fixed on the far wall. "Merlin, don't. I— "

"Oh, no, sire! I'm not laughing at you," Merlin said hastily. "I was just thinking about... Anyways, you _are._ Beautiful, that is. Very. If that's the right… If I'm allowed to say that?"

Arthur finally looked at Merlin, eyes wary. He studied him for a moment before nodding.

Relieved, Merlin smiled. "Good. Now—" _Can I please put my thumbs on your nipples? Or my hand on your belly, right under that embroidered band, where you're trying to suck it in—better yet, maybe you could twirl around, bend over and brace your arms on the table again and I'll…_ "Um, what's all this about Gwen leaving?"

"Merlin, are your hands clean?"

"What? Oh!" Without realizing he was doing it, Merlin had drifted nearer, reaching towards Arthur's sleeve. He snatched his hand back, wiping it on his neckerchief. "Sorry, probably not. I fell. There was a cat."

"Wait," Arthur said. His hand shot out, gripping Merlin's wrist. He let go just as suddenly, eyes roving over Merlin's face. "I mean, it's all right," he murmured, taking a step forward. "You can touch. If you like. It's very fine silk, from across the sea."

Merlin wasn't brave (or stupid) enough to go with the nipple idea, but he did reach out and trail his fingers down the silk hugging Arthur's shoulders.

_Ooh, yes. Much nicer than spaulders._

Arthur shivered. Merlin instinctively curled his palms and rubbed, saying, "Oh, are you cold? Here." He pulled away, nearly tripping over the basket of rushes in his haste to retrieve the cloak Arthur had cast aside. He shook it out and drew near once more, careful not to step on the gown.

"Merlin, what are you— " Arthur began as Merlin unfurled the cloak in a cloud around his shoulders.

"Please, Your Highness, allow me," Merlin said, arranging the folds of the cloak, smoothing the wool over the silk. He could smell the cloves that were the predominant ingredient in the spice sachets Cook gave him to place in Arthur's wardrobe and, beneath that, there was a faint hint of lilacs coming off the dress. It was a heady combination, especially mingled with Arthur's own scent. Merlin found himself lingering, standing much too close, fumbling with the ties at Arthur's neck.

Then he made the mistake of looking higher. 

Arthur's face was a mess of color, splotchy pinks and reds and blues, almost angry-looking but for his eyes. Merlin recognized those eyes. They were the ones he saw over late night campfires, or when Arthur had had too much wine at a feast and needed tucking in. They were the eyes that sought Merlin's out before they were going to be parted from one another for any length of time, or in the instant just before all hell broke loose.

"Merlin?" Arthur said in a strained whisper.

"Yes?"

"Gwen and I aren't getting married."

Then all hell broke loose.

Or, rather, Arthur kissed him—full on the mouth, with his nose wedged up against Merlin's and a nice warm, wet nudge of tongue. His mouth tasted _good,_ like he'd been sucking on those honey-spice pellets Cook doled out grudgingly to courting couples and…

_What does he mean they're not getting married?_

Merlin pulled away, breathing heavily. "But all the… and the… Cook has had every servant in the castle plucking chickens for days now! It's been utter _carnage,_ and… Arthur, I spent _four hours_ polishing your stupid crowns. By hand, without magic, because bloody _George_ said it's tradition. Do you have any idea how fussy the queen's is? You have to work the dust out of the crevices with a— _Mmph."_

_Oh, he's had something herby as well. Mint, is it? If I push my tongue in a little further, perhaps I can… Wait!_

It took considerably more effort for Merlin to tear himself away the second time, but he did, pressing his hands against Arthur's chest.

"No, I won’t be… Arthur, you can't just _kiss_ lost time back into existence, no matter how tasty you are."

Arthur closed his hands round Merlin's wrists, a smile tugging at his lips. "Tasty? What am I, a bowl of stew? Did you not get enough supper?" He leaned forward again and Merlin had to dodge out of the way. It resulted in him stumbling against Arthur, face squashed against his neck, which was solid and warm and smelt nothing of cloves or lilacs, but just— _mmm, hello, Arthur_ —and if he were braver, he could open his mouth and lick… 

Merlin groaned. Arthur chuckled, the vibrations rumbling through Merlin and contributing to the dire situation taking shape in his trousers.

"Don’t worry," Arthur said, nuzzling against Merlin's head—which only muffled his voice and inflamed the trouser situation. "Your efforts won’t be wasted. We're still having the coronation. It's just that there won't be a wedding beforehand. Here, perhaps we should… ah, down. Sit down, that is. Perhaps I should explain?"

Merlin found himself quite loath to move, however, so it was a good thing Arthur released his wrists and shuffled back; it saved him the embarrassment of rutting against one of his silk-clad thighs. 

He sucked in a shuddery breath, not knowing where to put his eyes. 

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Explain yourself." He collapsed onto a nearby stool, then sprang up again with a muttered curse and held it out for Arthur, who gave him an odd look. 

Merlin shrugged. "After you, Your Highness." 

Arthur flushed to the roots of his hair, but he sat without comment, letting Merlin gather the cloak like a cape and drape it behind him so the gown wasn't bunched (or hidden) beneath it. 

When he'd arranged Arthur's skirts to his satisfaction, Merlin straddled the bench, surreptitiously trying to adjust himself in his trousers. He kept a safe enough distance away that he wouldn't be in danger of getting boot prints on the gown. And that he'd have plenty of warning if Arthur tried to kiss him again.

_And thank you so very much for that, sire, as I'm never going to be able to eat mint or honey or anything with spices in it ever again without thinking of your_ tongue _in my_ mouth, _which means I'll either starve or die from constant, painful arousal, and the Druids will be shaking their heads in dismay, wondering how their prophecies went so horribly awry._

Arthur sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a hank of it sticking up like an errant bit of thatch. "Gwen's still going to be queen, but not as my wife. It'll be an official position, more like court physician or genealogist."

"Like being Gaius or _Geoffrey?_ No wonder she wants to leave," Merlin muttered, earning himself a glare.

"No, Merlin, but she will hold a seat on the council and be given a substantial freehold for her service to the kingdom, which… Stop that! I can see what you're thinking, and you've got it all wrong, you degenerate whelp."

Merlin folded his arms over his chest and tried to compose his face into a blank mask. He focused on Arthur's ridiculous hair.

"She's to serve as Camelot's chief diplomat. It's what she _chose._ And it's brilliant, because I can't be in two places at once, common people adore her, and nobles will either underestimate her at their peril or fall madly in love with her."

"Do you _want_ nobles falling madly in love with her?"

Arthur shrugged. "It’s down to what Gwen wants. I'll need an heir someday, and any children she has will be accorded a claim to the throne, as long as they aren’t sired by enemies of the kingdom."

"Sired by?" Merlin said, his voice going a bit screechy. "Won't they be sired by—I mean, won’t you be the one to, um, with Gwen?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "To bed her? Honestly, Merlin, can't you even say it?"

"Bed," Merlin said, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks. "Bedbedbed. Hours upon hours of bed and Gwen—of _bedding_ Gwen. There, I said it. And stop trying to change the subject. Why won't she be having _your_ puling… er, blessings?"

_They'd be fussy little tyrants, the lot of them, and through no fault of Gwen's._

Arthur made a noise of disbelief. "Because, _Merlin,_ though I'm sure we could pleasurably muddle through the act, we were fortunate enough to realize that it wasn't what either of us really wanted."

He settled back on the stool, thighs splayed as wide as the gown's skirts would allow. Merlin resisted chiding him for his posture. The view of his thighs straining the side seams wasn't all terrible.

"The other week, when you were visiting your mother, we spent the night in the ruins of the old forge. Some blasted village custom for courting couples, Elyan said. I'm tempted to think he and Gwen made it up, but it served its purpose."

Merlin frowned. "Was there… Is there something wrong with Gwen, down there, I mean? Because I've seen _you_ down there and you're healthy as an ox. A very plump, meaty sort of... um. What? Why are you staring at me like that?"

Arthur threw back his head and laughed as he only did when they were alone. It was different though, in the gown, with his chest constrained by the bodice. Merlin longed to splay his hands along Arthur's sides.

"Er, thank you for that, Merlin. Very flattering. But you've got the wrong end of the stick. The point was to lay bare all our secrets, that sort of thing. With the aid of wine. An awful, _awful_ lot of wine."

"You and Gwen, you got _drunk?"_

"Roaring," Arthur said, nodding, not even having the decency to look the slightest bit ashamed of himself. 

"Merlin, we love one another dearly, but she doesn't want a chaste marriage. Doesn't want _any_ sort of marriage, actually—lost her taste for it somewhere between shoveling pig shit and meeting Isolde—and is dead set on a life of adventure. And a string of lovers, I imagine, unless she can find Lancelot. Say, I don’t suppose you've ever heard of a place called Avalon?"

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, muttering, "Er, perhaps? But I still don't understand why—"

"I don't want to bed her?" Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees, absolutely _everything_ that was presently driving Merlin mad on full view—brawny shoulders cosseted by silk and lace, rich fabric stretched tight as a sausage casing across heaving ribs and lazy nubs of nipple. And that little shadowy gap, right in the center, where Merlin could just imagine putting his...

"Can't you guess?" Arthur said resting his chin on his hands and eyeing Merlin speculatively. 

"Er, because you'd rather wear her dresses?"

Arthur tilted his head and gave Merlin a disarming smile. "Touché. But no, that's nothing to do with it. She's been very understanding in that regard. As have you, Merlin."

They stared at one another for a long moment, Merlin thinking, _Gods, stop imagining shoving your bits down his bodice. Look at his hair. Stupid hair. Like a hound that's been through a thicket. No wonder Gwen's come to her senses. He's such a sprawly, eager thing, probably wants a wife who'll play at hounds and masters—hand-feed him, brush him, give him a good scratch behind the ears._

And that was a very dangerous path of thought to wander down, because Merlin had frittered away many an hour at the kennels, and he knew exactly what hounds got up to. He was suddenly assaulted by visions of Arthur bowling him over on his back, sniffing and licking at him in the most intimate of places. Of Arthur on all fours, thrusting his rump into the air and waggling it as an exhortation for Merlin to come and play.

_Or horses. Like when I rode him through the castle, the night his father died._

Merlin had been far too traumatized by subsequent events at the time, but thinking back on it now, he realized how much he had enjoyed it—mounting Arthur like that, swatting his flanks and having his orders followed without question. Having Arthur's undivided attention. It had been the same in the woods, when they'd had to flee and he'd turned Arthur into a witless shadow who'd lived for Merlin's approval and shared body heat.

And that's why he shouldn't give in to this, whatever it was. The things he _wanted._ The things he could make Arthur _do…_

Arthur knew Merlin had magic, yes, but he didn’t know that he _was_ magic—that he could slow time and command dragons. Arthur thought that the all-powerful Emrys the Druids spoke of was Merlin's mentor, the batty old goat who lived in the forest and went by the name of Dragoon, and Merlin had yet to find the time or the words (or the occasion) to disabuse him of the notion.

Arthur sat up straight, closing his legs and slowly smoothing the gown down his thighs. He kept his eyes fixed on Merlin's.

Merlin felt the gaze as a hot prickle just behind his navel. He squirmed on the hard bench.

"Are you really that dense?" Arthur said softly. "Or are you just playing coy, because I swear, sometimes the way you look at me… And just now, when I kissed you. So _hungry,_ Merlin, like you were starving for it, and I know I felt your cock on my leg. You can't tell me you don't— " 

"My magic!" Merlin blurted.

Arthur's face clouded. He jerked his hands back, holding them over his lap. "You blame your reaction on sorcery? That's low, Merlin, especially for you. Or is it that the great Emrys is above satisfying such desires?"

"What? No! I want you—gods, Arthur, you've no _idea_ how much I—only... " Merlin looked around, hoping that by some miracle Gwen had returned or Kilgharrah had decided to swoop in and carry him away on urgent business. Then Arthur's words sunk in. "You know I'm Emrys?!"

Arthur gave a terse nod.

"How? _When?"_ Merlin sprang up from the bench, ready to run. "Did you see me in the caves, because I swear I had no choice. Agravaine, he—"

"Merlin, wait," Arthur said, struggling to gather his skirts. "Why are you bringing that up? I know you'd never— " He broke off with a curse as the trailing end of one sleeve got caught up in a handful of fabric. He let go and looked up, pinning Merlin with his eyes. 

Merlin turned away, the great lump of guilt and misery he'd been hauling around between his shoulder blades burning white-hot.

"Emrys or no, the death you gave my uncle was far kinder than the one he deserved. Of that I have no doubt. But that's not—Merlin, look at me. And sit down, _please._ I'm not angry, just trying to understand." 

Merlin took a deep breath. The guilt was still there—he suspected it always would be—but the misery dissipated under the warmth of Arthur's gaze. He sank back onto the bench.

"How then?" He was pretty sure Arthur hadn't discovered _that_ lurking behind a screen; he was very careful no one called him Emrys aloud.

"The Druids," Arthur said, giving Merlin a tentative, crooked smile. "Every camp we've gone to, they address me, but they _watch_ you. The children are all terrified until you start making spark dragons and pulling grapes out of their ears—and you're hardly terrifying, Merlin—and the rest of them are forever finding some excuse to _touch_ you." 

"You, ah, noticed that?"

"I notice anyone who touches you, Merlin. Always have." 

Arthur gave him a look that had him fidgeting again, thinking, _All this time, all these years of hiding and wanting and not even hoping, and now..._

Merlin shook himself, realizing that he'd been doing far more staring than listening.

"… suspicious," Arthur was saying. "Gwen thought so too, so we put our heads together, compared stories, did a bit of research. One thing led to another and… " He tilted his head, regarding Merlin almost shyly. "Emrys, the immortal—the one who was and always shall be magic. That about right?"

"Oh, I... "

Merlin's magic swirled up, reaching for Arthur the way it often did when he was worried about him. Except this time it was motivated by pure, craving joy. The bench lurched sideways, towards Arthur.

"You _researched_ me?" he said, struggling for balance. 

"Needs must, Merlin," Arthur said, watching the bench in wide-eyed amusement. "Knew there was something I was still missing. Couldn't leave it alone, could I? Not with how I—gods, Merlin, do you know there are _prophecies_ about you, in multiple tongues? And there I was just wanting to shove mine in your saucy mouth."

Laughing, Merlin gave in, tumbling at Arthur's feet. The bench tipped onto its side and lay still.

Arthur parted his legs and his lips, a shuddery breath escaping as he drew the skirts back far enough for Merlin to kneel up in the space between. Merlin pressed his face and hands to the silk, no longer worried about dirtying the gown but _wanting_ to, feeling a sudden, perverse urge to leave marks that only his magic could wash out.

"Determined to fathom me out then?" he murmured, nuzzling against Arthur's thigh.

Arthur hissed, gripping the back of Merlin's neck. "Yes. Everything; I want to know everything. I _want_ everything."

"Truly?" Merlin lifted his face.

Arthur touched a thumb to Merlin's lips. "Yes. But I'll settle for whatever you care to give me. I'd be a fool not to; I know that now. Hell, I should probably be offering to lick Emrys's boot buckles."

"Oh?" Merlin raised an eyebrow, mind all too willing to take the image and run with it.

Arthur smirked. "I'd rather lick something else though. Look at you—how are you still _blushing_ when the only thing separating your mouth from my cock is a few layers of purple silk?"

"Hob says it's violet," Merlin said dazedly, rubbing the slippery fabric, enthralled by the way it quickly warmed to his touch.

"Who on earth is Hob?"

"Kitchens," Merlin mumbled, pressing his face back to Arthur's lap and inhaling. "Arthur, I'm yours, always have been. It's just that I don’t want to hurt you. _Ow!"_

Merlin looked up, rubbing his ear. "What did you pinch me for?"

"Do you even hear yourself? Look where your teeth are, Merlin, and tell me I shouldn’t be concerned."

Merlin scowled. "No, I just meant—that's what I've been worried about, all right? Ever since you kissed me. My magic, it's… I was born with it. I still don’t know how powerful I am—the Emrys thing came as quite a shock, believe you me—and I've never, um." Merlin gestured at Arthur's lap, where his arousal was tenting the gown in a most unladylike fashion.

"Bedded anyone?" Arthur supplied incredulously.

"Mmm. Nor pastured, stabled or met at midnight near the postern gate. There was one time, I thought… " Merlin swallowed, remembering pilfered sausages, salty kisses, and the relief of being _seen._ "But she was only passing through, and I..."

"Stayed?" Arthur said, touching Merlin's cheek. "Thank you."

"Well, and Gwaine flirts terribly," Merlin rushed on, unsure what to do with the tender expression on Arthur's face. "But he never follows through, and it turns out coddling your destiny is a full-time occupation. So, yes, I suffer from an overabundant imagination and a sad lack of practical experience."

"Surely you've…" Arthur made a graphic hand gesture.

"Of course," Merlin muttered.

"And what happens?"

Merlin stared up at Arthur. _Seriously?_ He took a deep breath.

"Um, well, my balls get all achy and sort of, you know, tight, and then my— "

"Not between your _legs,_ you—gods, Merlin, I mean with your _magic."_

"Oh, right." Merlin smiled sheepishly. "Um, sometimes not much, just—well, I've never had an independent witness, but I think things vibrate a little. Flames waver, cups rattle. But plants seem to like it!"

"Plants?"

"Yes, they, er, perk up a bit."

"I won't ask."

"I thought you just did."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "So, worst case scenario, what are we talking about? If I asked you to—" He placed a hand on top of Merlin's and drew it up his thigh until Merlin's thumb was a hair's breadth from the obscene bulge, which was now sporting a damp little crown. "—say, bend me over a table, push my skirts up, and take me from behind like the randy old goat I know you are beneath your virgin blushes… "

All the candles in the room flickered. A stoneware bottle fell off a nearby shelf, smashing on the floor, and an inkpot skittered precariously close to the edge of the table.

Merlin surged up, clambering as best he could onto Arthur's lap. _Too much space between us,_ he thought, wondering why he'd ever doubted that kissing Arthur was a vital part of the whole destiny-coddling plan. Because it was. _Obviously._

Arthur grabbed hold of Merlin's waist and hauled him in, yanking his tunic out from his belt and sliding warm, calloused palms along his sides with a contented hum.

No one had _ever_ touched Merlin like this before—hungrily, wanting to get at bare skin for no reason other than pleasure. The inkpot and two jugs leapt to their deaths before he was able to contain himself.

"Oh, we are going to break _so_ many pots, sire," he whispered, grinding down onto Arthur's lap. "Best put the steward on alert."

Arthur's breath stuttered out against his cheek. _"Gods,_ you're... I trust the great Emrys can get us back to the castle? Discreetly?"

Merlin mumbled his assent, lost in the velvet folds of Arthur's ear and the feel of his rough hands. He kissed Arthur's temple and even nosed into his ridiculous, wayward hair, which, up close, was actually rather agreeable.

Arthur pinched Merlin's hip. 

"Ooh, you—what is it _now?_ "

"Castle, Merlin?"

"Now? But... table," Merlin whined. Petulance making him bold, he wormed an arm down between them, palming a hot, silk-clad handful.

Arthur let out a little groan. "I think Gwen will understand about the dress, but dishonoring her table as well might be— _gods, that feels_ —a bit much."

"But you said— "

Arthur gripped Merlin's hips and bucked up, once, into his hand. He was breathing heavily, nipples cresting their confines on every inhale.

_"I_ have a table, Merlin, if you recall. It's in my chambers, not too far from my bed. My great, big bed with sturdy posts and a whole chest full of straps and belts and— "

_"Oferwréon!"_ Merlin gathered the concealment and pushed it over Arthur with such vigor he nearly toppled them over backwards. He scrambled off his lap, tugging him up just as the stool went sprawling.

"Watch the skirts," Arthur hissed, the air around him shimmering for a moment before he faded from sight. 

"Oh, I plan to, sire," Merlin said, crowding in close and bundling him towards the door.

_I'm going to watch them sliding along your thighs, or flipped up over your back while I spend some quality time with that bum of yours. Or maybe I'll just crawl under them—rip the seat out of one of the chairs, make you stay up half the night trying to polish your precious dagger while I... um._

That was the trouble, really. For all Merlin's elaborate fantasies, he didn't know what it was two men typically got up to together—or, rather, he didn't know what was _allowed._ He knew all the important anatomical bits, of course—and thanks to Gwaine he'd spent many an hour pondering the various combinations thereof—but the etiquette of the thing was beyond him. 

Clearly Arthur was not averse to being bent over a table like a tavern wench (and if only Merlin had known _that_ in the castle of the ancient kings), but what about a barrel, or a stack of hay? Now that they'd kissed, was Merlin allowed to stick his tongue anywhere he liked? Would Arthur think him odd if he wanted to rub his cock against those maddening back dimples or treat his arse like a cushion in want of plumping? Pat it, knead it, maybe even smack it around a little...

If any of the guard noticed how flushed Merlin was as he slipped back into the castle, or wondered at his awkward gait, they kept it to themselves. He was, after all, known to frequent the tavern.

* * *

Fortunately for Merlin, Arthur had no such qualms. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted and how to go about getting it. As soon as they'd gained the privacy of his chambers, he herded Merlin against the wardrobe, tore off his neckerchief and began snuffling and sucking at the exposed skin. And running his hands _everywhere._

It took Merlin several tries to lift the concealment. When at last he got it right, actually _seeing_ Arthur again—with his flushed cheeks, mussed hair and all that muscle packed into one taut, shiny package—was almost too much on top of all the other heady sensations. All the candles in the room flared up. Merlin closed his eyes.

"Don't you dare burn the bed down," Arthur said. "Need that. Think we should... table's not going anywhere, hmm? First let's pretend it's our wedding night. That you're so... so impatient, Merlin. So eager. You've never had a woman before, haven't the least idea how to get me out of this gown, so you'll just have to push it out of the way."

_Who needs to pretend?_ Merlin thought, saying, "Or rip it, yes, that's... oh, _Arthur."_

Arthur had worked Merlin's tunic up and was stroking his sides again, thumbs rubbing hot arcs on his belly and catching in his belt on each down stroke. He suddenly grabbed hold of the trailing belt strap and tugged, making the leather bite into Merlin's bare flesh.

"Call me 'Your Highness.' I liked that." He tucked the strap between Merlin's legs and pressed it against the root of his cock. "And you can do anything you want to the gown, so long as you can restore it before the coronation."

"No." Merlin opened his eyes. He tore the cloak's laces and pushed it off Arthur's shoulders, almost frightened by the hot streak of possessiveness he felt towards the gown. "Please, Your Highness, don't give it back. It's... I don't want to see anyone else wearing it. I'll buy her a new one, learn sewing spells and _make_ her a new one, but— "

Merlin temporarily forgot about dresses in favor of lips and the spicy warmth of Arthur's tongue. 

"Very well. You can... pay for it out of your... new wages," Arthur murmured between kisses.

"Mmm, yes my… _what?"_ Merlin reared back, narrowly missing braining himself on the edge of the wardrobe.

Arthur's eyes flew open, then narrowed in confusion. His lips were shiny with spit. He made a querulous noise and moved his hands to Merlin's neck, trying to haul him back in. 

"What new wages?" Merlin said, resisting. "I haven't even got _old_ wages, as far as I know."

"Oh," Arthur said, frowning as he stared at Merlin's mouth. "Did I not explain that part earlier?"

"No, sire, you did _not_ explain that part." _Is that what this is? Now that he knows how powerful I am, he thinks to buy my favor with silk-clad nipples and gold?_

Arthur blinked, then gave a frustrated huff. "Well, you should have been able to extrapolate."

"That's an awfully big word," Merlin snapped. "Are you sure you know what it means?"

Arthur gripped his jaw. "It means, Merlin, that I can hardly compensate Gwen for her services without paying you, too."

"Oh, no. Un-uh. I don’t think so," Merlin said, trying in vain to shake his head. "I'm not going to be your bed warmer or whatever nonsense you and Gwen cooked up at the bottom of a barrel."

"No?" Arthur's pinched face eased. He released Merlin's chin and took a step back, eyeing him up and down (and up again, but only after a bit of a pause). "She suggested royal consort, actually, but I can't see myself calling you that, even in private. And I resent the suggestion that I would ever have to pay for a bed companion—no, Merlin, you're going to be my chief advisor. _That's_ what the wages are for."

He grinned, somehow managing to look both endearingly hopeful and disgustingly smug at the same time (an expression Merlin had despised and envied and rather wanted to lick off his face since the day they'd met).

"Oh really?"

Arthur nodded, smile faltering.

_Good grief, he's serious._

"Does that mean you'll actually do as I say?"

"Hmm, no, see," Arthur said, smug grin back in full force. He shook out his sleeves and began ticking items off on his fingers. "It's more like you'll attend council, look over treaties, write my speeches, work out how to prevent horrible magical disasters from befalling the— "

"I already do all of that!" Merlin protested.

"Yes, but now you'll be paid for it. Plus, no more emptying chamber pots, and— " Arthur shunted Merlin aside, opening the wardrobe. He rummaged within, then turned to Merlin triumphantly, holding up the long red quilted number that he always shunned in favor of his brown leathers (Merlin suspected it was because he didn't want the extra padding).

"I'll throw in a new coat. Well, practically new, and it's very _red._ You look handsome in red, Merlin. What do you say?"

And now the smug smile was gone, leaving only that goofy, hopeful face that—for all Merlin's many issues and doubts and fevered longings concerning Arthur over the years—had never failed to make him shake his head and sigh and admit that he would follow Arthur anywhere, under any conditions, even if he wasn't destined for greatness.

"Fine," he said, plucking the coat from Arthur's hands and making a meal of hanging it back in the wardrobe. "But I absolutely forbid you replacing me with bloody _George._ Especially if I'm sleeping in here. We'll be stabbing our own ears within a week."

_"You_ forbid?"

Merlin closed the wardrobe and turned to find Arthur smirking. 

"Well, just this once then, as I happen to agree." Arthur crowded Merlin back up against the wardrobe. "No George."

Merlin lifted a hand, absently smoothing Arthur's errant hair back into place. Then a wicked thought occurred to him. He curled a hank round his fingers and gave a tug.

"You do know I have ways of _forcing_ you to do as I say?"

Arthur only smiled, leaning in whisper-close. "Yes, Merlin. I'm no simpleton. But I trust, in future, you'll reserve your special powers of persuasion for our private amusement, leave me to make my own decisions in a crisis, hmm?"

Merlin stayed him with a hand on his bodice, and, really, it was sheer coincidence that his thumb landed on a nipple. _Oh, that's... definitely, definitely want to pinch. And suckle. Maybe we could cut holes in the gown so he doesn't have to take it off? Wait, is he talking about letting me... ungh._

"You... You liked that?"

Arthur pressed closer, butting his head and chest into Merlin's hands. "Not exactly. But I liked how light I felt, how easy, like everything would turn out all right as long as I listened to you."

"I could have made you do anything. Taken advantage."

"Mmm, and the worst abuse of your power was suggesting I rinse the bowls and water the horses." Arthur ran his thumbs down the sides of Merlin's neck, sleeves dragging across his collarbones. "As I recall, _I_ was the one who got a bit handsy." 

Arthur began kneading the tense muscles at the base of his neck. Merlin closed his eyes and melted into the touch.

"A bit?" he breathed. "You should have seen yourself with that tree, sire. The woods are probably full of your bastard saplings."

There was a warm puff of laughter on Merlin's ear. "I meant later on."

Merlin shivered. "Yes, _well._ You were freezing cold. I could hardly tell Kilgharrah that I'd let the future king of Albion die, all for want of a cuddle."

"No, that would have been a waste." Arthur arched against Merlin's hand, his nipple a hard nub.

Merlin could no longer pretend that he wasn't deliberately massaging it, alternately pressing in with the pad of his thumb and scraping against it with the nail.

"Merlin?"

"Ngh?"

"Who is Kilgharrah?"

Merlin froze mid-rub, wincing. He cracked an eye open to find Arthur looking genuinely puzzled. He closed his eyes again.

"He's a friend, of sorts. Actually, he's the—look, can I please, _please_ not be a virgin before we get into that? You can have me any way you like, just— "

Arthur's reply was a writhing press of flesh and fabric, of bruising lips and wet tongue and hands fisted into Merlin's hair.

Merlin had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have his first release involving another person crushed against Arthur's wardrobe—quite possibly in his trousers, without otherwise being touched—when Arthur broke away.

"Bed," he ordered, spinning them round and prodding Merlin towards it. "Top off. Cock out. Leave the belt."

The candles behaved, but the shields on the wall rattled as Merlin stumbled towards the bed. He struggled out of his tunic, flopped onto his back and bit his lip as he tried to work his swollen cock free of its confines.

"Is that what all the— _ah, gods_ —blushing brides say, Your Highness?"

"Yes. Quite often, I'm told. And, Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to have you with my mouth, for a start, else I fear you won't last a minute in my arse. Try not to bring the ceiling down on our heads."

* * *

By the day of Gwen's coronation, Merlin figured that he knew most everything he needed to know about Arthur Pendragon in bed. All his faces, all his smells, all his sighs and moans and endless _demands._ He knew everything from how quickly Arthur came when he found that slick, spongy spot deep inside to how best to persuade him of the merits of Merlin's more unusual fantasies—the latter having a great deal to do with the former, apparently, as Arthur proved highly suggestible when he had something stuffed up his arse (and, yes, it seemed Merlin _was_ allowed to stick his tongue anywhere he liked).

Merlin even knew things he suspected Arthur didn’t realize about himself—like his laughable attempts to be subtle about the fact they were sharing a bed—so he wasn't a bit surprised when, three hours into the coronation feast, Arthur instigated one of his "discreet" exits.

He leaned to his left, kissed Camelot's new queen on the cheek, and began to whisper in her ear. Gwen looked radiant in the cream and gold number that Merlin had bought off a travelling merchant (it had taken all of his first month's wages, paid in advance because Arthur had agreed that it was a royal emergency).

She had looked daggers at him and Arthur for about five minutes before forgiving them for "ruining" the gown, merrily spreading the story of a horrific accident involving a dung cart and vat of blackberries in exchange for a new horse and Merlin's knowledge of Avalon.

"You're not supposed to use your diplomacy on _us,"_ Arthur had grumbled. 

"Hmm. I think I'll have your best crossbow as well," she'd replied. "Those hems took _ages."_

Gwen, as Merlin had come to realize, was going to do quite well as a diplomat.

He glanced over at her now, watching her smile at whatever Arthur was saying. Arthur straightened up and took a swallow of wine. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned to his right, towards Merlin.

_What'll it be this time, Your Highness? A suspicious shadow in that alcove just off the throne room? Another dangerous magical artifact in the vaults, or perhaps—for the good of Camelot—you need my urgent advice on the drape of the bed hangings?_

"I don't know what you were complaining about, Merlin," Arthur announced. "That coat suits you. Gwen thinks so too. Gives you a bit of much-needed padding."

"Thank you, sire," Merlin said cheerfully, fixing his eyes straight ahead and trying to control his jiggling knee. It was going to take him a while to get used to being trapped at the high table instead of roving (more or less) freely behind it.

"So it's a shame you've already stained it with green sauce."

"What?" Merlin looked down. He'd been so _careful,_ had followed Gaius' instructions not to slurp his soup or cram his cheeks full to bursting with ripe summer fruits, and he hadn’t even eaten any of the trout because… oh.

_Oh. This ought to be good._

"I apologize for my rough manners, sire," he said, stilling his knee and leaning back. He glanced at Arthur and lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps you could show me where?"

"Just... there." Arthur reached down, splaying a hand casually on Merlin's lap, just at the crease of his left hip. "That'll stain terribly if you don't soak it right away. Isn't that so, Gwen?"

"Mmm, yes," Gwen murmured, turning sparkling eyes on them for a moment before going back to watching Percy's attempts at enticing her brother to dance. "I'd go change, Merlin, if I were you. Green sauce is a nightmare after it has set."

Arthur pressed down hard, squeezing Merlin's thigh before withdrawing his hand. He pushed back from the table with a put-upon sigh. 

"I suppose I'll have to lend you something else then. Can't have my chief advisor going about in peasant rags. And, as the dancing has commenced, perhaps I'll don something less formal as well."

"No need to hurry back," Gwen said. "Our guests are well sated and, speaking for myself at least, well entertained. The Anglian envoy promised me a dance; I mean to press him on the matter of port access while he's ogling my breasts."

"Then the ports shall be ours," Arthur said with a chuckle, "and I will bid you goodnight." He murmured his excuses to the others seated at the high table, raised a final goblet to the lower hall, and retreated.

Naturally, Merlin followed. 

But not straight away, because he knew, now, that Arthur would want time to shed his court clothes and slip into the gown. He also knew that the longer he made Arthur wait to be laced up, the more fun he'd be. 

Merlin ambled down the hall, lingering over his goodnights. He plucked a handful of strawberries from a passing tray and nibbled on them, wondering what Arthur would make of the latest round of alterations. He was finally getting the hang of working with delicate fabrics.

_Now I just need to convince him to let me put a hole in the skirts._

* END *


End file.
